‘I…yes.’
He hauled her to her feet. ‘Then get ready to move.’
The first of the empire riders were bearing down on them. Caldason plucked a snub-bladed knife from his belt and flung it. The blade struck the foremost cavalryman square in the chest. His fall caused a moment of chaos for those following. A rider was unhorsed. Several others had to swerve sharply.
Caldason’s gaze flicked towards the redoubt. Pallidea was well on her way to reaching its gates, and horsemen were charging out to defend her.
But Pallidea had been lucky. A number of enemy troopers were moving across the plain, cutting off Reeth and Serrah’s way to the redoubt.
‘This way!’ he bellowed, snatching her arm.
They headed for another cluster of ruins, dominated by a tower, weaving as they ran. At their rear, hooves thundered, and arrows, spears and even a hatchet were lobbed. A shaft clipped the side of Serrah’s breastplate and she felt the blow like a punch. Reeth tugged at her, keeping her moving.
The tower seemed to be the only halfway substantial building in their path. They made for it, praying its door would prove unfastened. Long moments later, gasping from the effort, they arrived at the tower’s base, and were relieved beyond measure to find the door ajar. They slammed it behind them practically in their pursuers’ faces, quickly securing it with an iron bar.
The place was a watchtower, part stone, part timber, but it hadn’t been built as a defence, or even for any overtly practical purpose. Like so much on the island, it was ornamental; a prop to enhance someone’s fantasy vacation. As such, it wouldn’t withstand a determined assault for long. Even now the door shook under a battering, and was unlikely to hold.
They looked around. There was nothing but rickety wooden stairs leading to the tower’s summit, and Serrah and Caldason began running up them. The stairs creaked and swayed, while below, the pounding at the door grew more violent.
As they reached the second flight, the door’s restraining bar buckled and splinters flew. They kept climbing, and by the time they clambered up the last flight, they were breathing heavily.
At the top of the tower was a belfry, where a frame supported an iron bell large enough for a buffalo to wallow in. It hung above an open trap. Waist-high stone walls enclosed the belfry’s four sides, and there was a wooden crown above, but otherwise it was open to the elements. A bitter wind cut through, bringing a smattering of snowflakes.
‘They’re going to have that door down any second,’ Serrah said.
‘I’ve been in worse defensive positions.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, not by much.’
The door was holed. Looking down, they could see the tips of spears, and probing hands searching for the bar.
‘What do we do?’
‘Stand well back,’ he told her.
One hand against the bell frame, he scaled the wobbly banister. Then he drew his broadsword. At a stretch, he swiped at the stout rope holding up the bell. The blow bit into the rope, but didn’t sever it, and he struck again, gouging deeper. Strands popped as the fibres grew taut.
There was a rise in the level of noise from downstairs. The last remnants of the door were kicked in.
Caldason was about to deliver a third stroke, but there was no need. The rope snapped and gravity took the bell, sucking it neatly through the open trap. From that point it fell less tidily. It hit a balustrade, shattering it, and crashed into the wall, dislodging masonry and emitting a sour note. Then it dropped true.
The bell struck with a tremendous, almost melodic crash, sending clouds of dust billowing. It came down at an angle, one edge of its lip driven into the ground, its dome wedged against the entrance.
The staircase shook violently. Barely keeping his balance, Caldason hopped lightly to the belfry floor and froze. He and Serrah stood motionless, listening to the bell’s echoing death knell and waiting for the stairs to collapse. After what seemed a very long time, Serrah whispered, ‘I think they’re staying up for now.’
Caldason crept to the edge and looked down. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw limbs sticking out from underneath the bell.
Serrah edged over to join him. ‘Seems awfully quiet down there.’
‘This was just a hitch. Don’t run away with the idea that we stopped them or anything.’
‘Let’s see.’ Moving low, she led him to the belfry wall.
For the first time, she noticed that an elaborately carved gargoyle stood at each corner, looking out across the island. She and Reeth huddled beneath one, then they took a peek. Almost immediately a roar went up from below, and arrows quickly followed. One hit the gargoyle’s head, chipping an unsightly ear. Reeth and Serrah ducked back down.
‘I made it twenty or more,’ she reported.
‘Me too. Add the ones we couldn’t see and-’
‘And we have a lot of murderous bastards who want to get in here.’
‘Of course, we’re just two people. They must have better things to do. Perhaps they’ll give up.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Not really.’
He removed his helmet, then began unlacing the breastplate. ‘I hate wearing this stuff.’
‘I’m grateful for it.’ Nevertheless, she was taking hers off, too, revealing a spreading bruise from the arrow strike. At the bruise’s core, the skin was broken.
‘You’re getting a good black eye as well,’ he told her. ‘But don’t worry, I like dark-eyed women.’
‘Ha, ha.’ She dabbed at the bruise with a cloth, and winced.
‘Give it here,’ he said. He produced a hip flask and dampened the cloth.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Brandy. Good stuff, too. Darrok gave it to me.’
‘Trust him to have the best. Ouch.’
‘That should stop any infection,’ he said, pressing the cloth to her wound.
‘Which might not be our greatest worry at the moment. I mean, infections need time to take hold, don’t they? And that could be something we haven’t got a lot of.’
Neither spoke for a moment. Then she added, ‘Do you think Pallidea got through?’
‘It looked like it. About that. I meant to say…’
‘What?’
‘Did I do the right thing? I kind of took the decision for you, didn’t I? Maybe you’re the one who should have had my horse.’
‘There was hardly time for a debate, Reeth. And yes, what you did was right. You usually do. It’s one of the things I like about you.’
‘Here’s some more irony for you. For decades I wanted nothing but to die. Now I’ve found you and I want to live, just when-’
She placed her fingers on his lips, quietening him. ‘Who said the gods haven’t got a sense of humour?’
‘The joke’s on us this time.’
‘No, Reeth. As long as we’re drawing breath, and as long as we’re together, there’s hope.’
‘And the longer we stay here, the larger their numbers are going to get.’
It was nearing dawn, and the snow had all but stopped, though it was colder than ever. They heard noises from below, and dared another peep over the wall’s edge. This time there were no jeers or streams of arrows; the invaders were too busy lugging wooden props, buckets, shovels and bundles of faggots towards the tower.
‘What’s the betting those buckets are full of oil and pig fat?’ Caldason said. ‘They’re going to undermine the walls with fire.’
‘I don’t much fancy the idea of being on top of a funeral pyre.’
‘You won’t be. The tower’s going to collapse long before that.’
‘Great. What are we going to do, Reeth?’
